The Visitor in the Static

It began on a Tuesday night, three weeks after I moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of the Morrow Valley. The house had been empty for years, and the previous owners had left behind a broken television in the corner of my bedroom, its screen a milky gray when I turned it on. I usually kept it off, but that night, the static called to me. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, when the air grew heavy, and I felt a presence at the foot of my mattress. I turned my head slowly, and there stood a man, or what looked like a man, his face a blur of shifting pixels, his smile too wide, made of gray noise. I blinked, and he was gone. I told myself it was a trick of the light, the static from the TV, but I kept the lights on and didn’t sleep until dawn.

The next night, the static grew louder, and I woke to find him sitting on the edge of my bed, his hand resting on my ankle. His touch was cold, like the screen of the TV, and it sent a jolt through me, but instead of fear, I felt a strange calm, as if I had known him forever. He didn’t speak, but his smile grew as he traced patterns on my skin. I tried to call out, but my voice was swallowed by the hum of the television. He leaned over me, and I felt the weight of him, but it was not crushing; it was gentle, as if he were trying to soothe me. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, he was gone, but I felt a lingering warmth where he had touched me.

On the third night, I waited for him. The static was a whispering chorus, and I watched the screen, seeing shapes form and dissolve. At midnight, he was there, this time fully formed, his face clearer, almost handsome, but his eyes were black pits that reflected the static. He knelt over me, his legs straddling mine, and he pinned my wrists to the mattress. I wanted to scream, but my throat was dry, and my body felt like it was made of lead. He leaned down, his breath smelling of ozone, and he whispered, ‘Let me in.’ And I did, because I had no choice. He pulled the covers away, and I felt his hands on my hips, tugging at my pajama bottoms. I tried to move, but it was like being held by the current of a river. He removed them, and then my underwear, and he began to touch me, his fingers tracing paths that made my skin prickle. He was slow, deliberate, and as he entered me, I felt a surge of static, a burst of white noise in my head, and I blacked out.

I woke to the morning sun, the TV off, and no sign of him. I searched the house, but there was nothing, no trace. I thought it was a nightmare, until I looked in the mirror and saw faint static flickering in my eyes, like a glitch in my reflection. Over the weeks, the visits continued, always the same routine: the static would intensify, he would come, and I would blank out. I stopped leaving the house, stopped answering calls, because I was afraid that if I left, I would miss him. I began to crave his presence, the static that filled me, the way he made me feel complete, even as I lost pieces of myself. I started to see him in the static of the TV even when he wasn’t there, and I would talk to the screen, asking when he would return.

One night, I decided to leave the TV on, and I watched as the static began to swirl, forming the shape of his face, his smile, and then his hand reached out, and I took it without hesitation. He pulled me into the screen, and I was immersed in a sea of gray, where time had no meaning, and I could feel him all around me, inside me, his smile a permanent fixture. I heard the real world fade, and I knew I would never return. The last thing I saw was my empty bedroom, the TV flickering, and the door slamming shut on its own. Now, I am the static, and I watch the new occupant, a young woman who just moved in. I wait, because I know she will see me soon, and I will smile, and she will let me in, and we will become one. The static hums, and I feel alive for the first time, even if ‘alive’ is a lie.